


Alive Inside These Dreams

by intentioncraft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Purgatory, Rutting, Scratching, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentioncraft/pseuds/intentioncraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A large part of keeping your body alive in Purgatory means becoming one with the scenery and blurring yourself into the illusions. A large part of keeping yourself, your soul or spirit or whatever, alive in Purgatory means constantly iterating the boundaries that define you, even when those boundaries cease to exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive Inside These Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Deancest in July](http://deancestdecember.tumblr.com/post/89481622653/deancest-in-july-its-that-time-of-year) and crossposted to [tumblr](http://braceourhearts.tumblr.com/post/90947861438/s3-dean-purgatory-dean-for-deancest-in-july-r). Partially inspired by and titled from Anathema's "Distant Satellites".

Dean drags broken, dirty fingernails across his own shoulder blades, carving a trail of white and then red as blood vessels spark under his touch. The sting is an echo, a reflection, a memory of fire racing down his back coupled with the burn of adrenaline and arousal coursing in his veins as blood rushes to fill his cock.  _Their_ cock. Cocks?

Somewhere between their bodies is a jagged line, a break between this one and that one that scurries away like an erratic heartbeat. Hands belonging to either one of them, both of them, nobody in particular, grasp and push and dig and it’s a tug o’ war between what was and what is separated by a fuzzy indistinct what-could-be.

This is Purgatory and Purgatory is muddling and mixed up. Day and night switch off like a faulty breaker and night so night melts into night melts into night again, morning caves into midnight and the darkening grey that passes for dusk swings into reverse and brings on another hazy, monochrome afternoon. Things that were ordered before fall out of it in casual pandemonium. And things that are meant to stay separate bleed together and make something new.

It soaks into you, into your skin and your blood and your mind. The scenery smudges together and a large part of keeping your body alive in Purgatory means becoming a part of the scenery and blurring yourself into the illusions. A large part of keeping your _self_ alive in Purgatory means constantly iterating the boundaries that define you, even when those boundaries cease to exist.

So  _he_  is the one doing the scratching,  _he_  feels the skin give under his nails, feels the blood well up hot and sticky as he runs his hands over the lines again to soothe them. He feels the hot rush of air slip into his mouth as the other man gasps, he feels the wet slide of a tongue grazing against his own. He’s the one with blood on his tongue, the one who kissed first and then bit into the other one’s bottom lip.

Hallucination or not, the pressure building at the base of his spine is good and feels pretty damn real, like a wet dream that threatens to end at any moment and perhaps that’s what this is. But at this point, that’s all that matters: Pleasure, heat, release, seeking it all with single-mindedness because it’s been for fucking ever since he’s had any skin to skin contact that didn’t end in a decapitation.

Although this, in and of itself, is a blurring of boundaries and a loss of direction. He’ll indulge in it even if it isn’t completely real, even if it’s just loneliness and exhaustion fucking with him because he needs something — someone — to keep him from unravelling.

A hand finds his belt and fumbles with the zipper of his pants and it comes down with a metallic grating sound. Like a game of a mirrors he does the same to his double, shoves his fingers down the front of Dean’s jeans and meets a very firm, very real feeling erection through the softness of clean underwear.

“Can I have those?” he asks dumbly after pushing Dean back into the dirt and pulling his jeans down to his knees. He thumbs the elastic of Dean’s plaid boxers and snaps them to his skin, “After, I mean.”

“All yours,” Dean counters with a wink. The illusion is younger than him by enough years and hardship that he still practically  _breathes_  innuendo, every word dripping with more than a suggestion, a recommendation, a request. It sits in Dean’s chest like a foot on the back of his heart, because he’s far too familiar by this point in his life or whatever you call this with loss to have nothing but assurance in how everything and everyone eventually changes or goes away or ceases to exist.

To see it staring up at him so openly, so nakedly, to see it in himself as he draws his past self’s shirt over his chest and shoulders and scars that he’s forgotten, scars that remind him of formative hunting experiences, of who he used to be, Dean starts to wonder who the illusion is here.

A sense of déjà vu flickers in his mind, a memory of something half-experienced. He’s seen these trees before, felt this dirt beneath his feet in a dream — maybe — as he bolted through the bushes and over roots, fleeing from something wild and snarling and fast-approaching.

Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t recall ever seeing the face of the one chasing him.

His hands hover, indecisive, over his younger self’s naked body.

The decision is made for him when he feels strong, soft fingers cover his, guide them back to Dean’s waist. He swallows thickly past the saliva pooling at the back of his throat and removes his own pants and boxers with conservative movement while the other one shimmies out of his underwear and throws them off to the side. Dean tracks them, expecting the discarded boxers to simply vanish when they’re out of sight, and when they don’t his throat constricts. Before he has time to ask himself why he wants to scream as loud as he can, let the violent noise scare the dry, grey leaves from the trees, he sits back down on his double’s bare lap and groans roughly and gratefully as warm, clean hands move his hips into a position so there’s something hard and hot rubbing against the back of his balls and along the sweaty crease of his ass.

Without thinking, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back to soak in the heat flooding his veins and nerves, focuses on the feeling of a cock riding his ass, the grainy dirt under his knees, the hand crawling up his chest, under his shirt, and then his stomach swoops in panic. If he opens his eyes again, there’s a chance this will be over, because that’s how dreams tend to work, don’t they? You blink once and it’s gone, and it fades fast so that there might not even be a memory to carry with you, just another sense of intangible, indescribable loss.

And now? He isn’t even sure who will be the one who fades away.

But when finally he opens his eyes, he has only a half a second to sigh out in relief before the hand on his chest grabs him by the collar and yanks him down for a wet, hungry kiss. Fingers tangle in his unwashed hair, cradle his prickly jaw, and he tries not think about how he can’t even smell a thing.


End file.
